I had no way of judging their actual ages, but for some reason the shorter one struck me as being older. The way she stood just a little in front of her companion gave off a protective, big-sister vibe. They both stood, hands on cocked hips, like they owned the place.

They were so striking, I almost didn’t notice the man standing behind them. He smelled human—his heart beat and his warm blood was his own. He was young, muscular under his gray slacks and black T-shirt. Square of jaw and thick of hair. I wanted to look for the label on him that said “Male Model.”

He smelled human, but he also smelled a little like the women, who in turn smelled a little like him. They all had an air of coolness, and of fresh blood. Then I figured it out: he was their donor. Their human servant, some vampires called it. I imagined they got a little more than blood out of him. They made quite the trio.

I looked at Provost. “You went out and found the most vampirey vampires you possibly could, didn’t you?”

“Vampires,” Conrad said flatly. Like he didn’t think the show would have the gall to try to convince him that vampires really existed.

Provost hurried to put himself between the vampires and the rest of us. Come on, I wanted to complain. If he thought this was going to cause an epic battle, he should have given us some warning.

I knew better than to go up against vampires. Physically, anyway.

“This is Anastasia and Gemma,” Provost introduced the women.

“And this is Dorian,” said the shorter, black-haired Anastasia, gesturing to their cabana boy. “So nice to meet you all.”

She had a confident voice and an American accent, which made it hard to place her actual age and point of origin. Her attitude seemed old, experienced.

Nobody said anything. It occurred to me that I might have been the only one here who’d dealt with vampires on anything resembling a regular basis. They tended to be kind of standoffish. But heck, they were people. That was the whole point of my show, that we were all just people, right? So, apparently it was going to be up to me to get this party started.

“So. How did they drag you all into this little shindig?” I couldn’t think of a more polite way of asking how they were famous and why hadn’t I heard of them.

Anastasia—such a vampire name—gave a gracious tilt to her head, nodding at her companion. “We’re here because of Gemma.”

I said to Gemma, “And you’re here because…”

Gemma shifted, cocking a leg and a hip forward, tilting back her shoulders—vamping, for lack of a better word. No pun intended, surely. “I’m the very first Miss Fille de Sang Vampire Pageant winner.”

Everyone else goggled at that, except for Provost, who must have been pleased that the cameras were recording all this. But I was kind of pissed off.

“Wait a minute, I heard about this,” I said. “In New York, right? Some kind of hoopy vampire nightclub promotional thing. A publicity stunt. I mean, who ever heard of a vampire beauty pageant? The promoters wouldn’t talk to me. Nobody would talk to me. I wanted to interview the winner and they wouldn’t even give me a name.” I jabbed a finger at her. “That’s no way to get publicity.”

“Maybe they thought you weren’t the right kind of publicity,” Anastasia said. Her smile seemed amused.

“And this is?” I said, pointing at Valenti’s camera. Vampires didn’t always show up on film. They could play with light, which was why they didn’t always have reflections and why cameras didn’t always capture them. It was part of how they vanished, how they moved without being seen. They could also control it, when they wanted to. When they wanted the publicity, for example.

“This first pageant was a limited affair,” Anastasia said. “Testing the waters, if you will. Like Joey here, I’m interested in what opportunities might be open to us if we go public. However, unlike Joey—and you—I’m not convinced it’s safe for us, yet. You live your life in the open, Kitty. You put yourself and what you are out there—and you’ve faced severe consequences for it. There are still people out there who would be happy to see us all dead. Vampires, werewolves, psychics, everyone.” She glanced around at each person in turn.

“We’re not so far removed from the days of burning witches. I’ve heard the argument before.”

“Some of us remember.”

I wasn’t sure how to read Anastasia. I had the impression that dressing to stereotypical vampire standards was an act—it was expected, and if she was going to be public about her vampirism, she would play to those expectations. She probably had a good mind for business—most vampires who survived in wealth and luxury did. But what was the act hiding?

“We wanted to meet other people who are going public and being successful at it. At least, that’s why I’m here,” Gemma said. She and Anastasia smiled at each other. I was fairly certain Anastasia was her Mistress, the one who made her. I couldn’t read all the layers of connection between them.

I said, “So you know all about the proving to Conrad here that we’re real and stuff, right?”

“Joey did explain to us the basic premise, yes.”

“Wow,” I said. “This is going to be so much fun.”

“Look,” Conrad said. “I don’t want to be judgmental, especially when it comes to someone’s lifestyle choices. But there are such things as artificial fangs. People have ritualistically drunk blood for thousands of years. There’s a logical explanation for all of this. And there’s really no way of proving any of you are as old as some vampires claim to be.”

Jeffrey turned to me. “Kitty, you know a lot of vampires through your show, right? How old is the oldest you’ve ever met?”

I kept getting pegged as an expert on this stuff. Probably because I kept sticking my neck out. Ah well.

“Most of them aren’t very forthcoming about their ages. Information is power, and they don’t want to give it away. But the oldest vampire I’ve ever met is about two thousand years old.”

Uncomfortable murmurs and shifting on sofas met the announcement. Even Anastasia looked impressed, narrowing her gaze and studying me as if I had suddenly become interesting.

“But you only have the guy’s word for it,” Conrad argued. “It’s not like you can go back and get a picture or a birth certificate to prove he was alive two thousand years ago.”